


Losing My Mind (Miss Me?)

by Tgaret990



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Because then it gets INTERESTING, Beware of occasional OOCness, Don't worry Mary shows up eventually, Everyone Needs A Hug, Feels, I Can't Wait to Reveal the Killer, John Watson Needs A Hug, John is a Mess, John thinks Sherlock is a hallucination, Kidnapping, M/M, Month(s) maybe?, Moriarty and everything he entails, Moriarty is Alive, Mycroft IS the British Government, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to S3 and S4 Episodes, S3 Canon Divergence, Sherlock Doesn't Deserve This, Starts a little before S3, Tears, Yes John Sherlock IS Alive, cases, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 10:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12629511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tgaret990/pseuds/Tgaret990
Summary: Pre S3E1-Canon Divergence. In the years of Sherlock's death, John has: had several failed relationships in an attempt to move on, spent a majority of his time locked up in 221B when not at work at the surgery, lost his ability to feel even the slightest bit of happiness, and spiraled ever deep into an infinite sea of despair and hopelessness. So, when Sherlock returns to London, seemingly back from the dead, he's surprised to find that John thinks him an illusion. That's when he knows he's broken the only man in the world to care so deeply for him-- And he'll do anything to fix that.It doesn't help matters when Moriarty shows up out of the blue on their doorstep however, and his return will test their relationships, and bring some up that both John and Sherlock had thought they'd forgotten.





	1. Prologue: Realization

Losing My Mind (Miss Me?)

Prologue: Realization

 

A/N: My first work in the most addicting fandom I’ve ever joined. So, this idea has been floating around in my head for a bit and, even though it’s extremely flawed, is getting posted anyway. First part of the title inspired by the Daughtry song. Poor John is trying to cope as best as he can, but life just isn’t having it. Enjoy!

Disclaim: I own nothing but my story and ideas. Everything else is property of BBC and Doyle.

 

    John sighed heavily with exhaustion, slowly getting out of the cab in front of Baker Street. He’d not gotten a single minute to rest all day, the surgery full of patients from the moment they’d opened until the moment he could finally leave. He was looking forward to a nice hot shower and dinner when he got into the flat. This is what his life had come to, this vicious unending cycle: eat, have nightmares, work, repeat. Except for his weekly venture for groceries and the usual visits from Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson’s checking in, John remained holed up in 221B outside of work as of late, consumed by his thoughts. It had been two years since that day, that dreadful, heart-shattering day. Every waking moment he spent alone and every time he closed his eyes, his mind replayed their last conversation together over the phone, the sight of his best friend plummeting to his death from the roof of Bart’s. It was worse than any war flashback he’d ever had. John always knew the detective was different from anyone he’d ever met. Under his seemingly uncaring outward appearance and brilliant mind was a kind, compassionate, loving man whose heart was a complicated, unsolvable puzzle.

    His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger bumping into him, causing him John to drop his keys. “Apologies,” the stranger, a man, said. John waved him off politely, only catching a glimpse of a long, dark coat as he bent down to pick up his-- Wait. The doctor’s head snapped up as he retrieved his keys, looking for the man. Finding him nowhere in sight, he sighed, shaking his head and opening the door to the building. His mind was playing tricks on him surely. Heading upstairs, he unlocked and opened the door to the flat, hanging up his coat before going to the kitchen to make some tea. The equipment remained scattered across the table and counters; John couldn’t find the will to move anything even a hair away from its original spot. As he drank, he ignored the creak of the stairs and sound of footsteps, thinking Mrs. Hudson was checking on him. As he heard the door open softly, someone cleared their throat, and he looked up. If not for reflexes, his teacup would’ve smashed against the floor.

    Standing in the doorway, exactly how he remembered him was… He couldn’t even say his name, hadn’t in the past two years, with the exception of his first/second to last therapy session, not after his plea at the cemetery. John’s eyes widened, breath stuttering, heart pounding almost out of his chest. The consulting detective smiled sheepishly, stepping further into the room until they were barely a foot apart. John stood, not believing his eyes; he resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, to make sure he was real, and that was his first mistake. Suddenly, something in his mind clicked (or maybe gave way), a crazed grin spreading slowly across his face. Before Sherlock could get a word out, John began laughing hysterically, as if possessed, startling him. It went on for another minute before the army doctor finally regained his composure enough to speak.

    “I’ve lost it, haven’t I? I’ve finally lost it. But why today of all days?” Sherlock, brows furrowed, even more confused, tried once again to speak. He got the first part of John’s name out before the man in question checked his phone and answered his own question. “Two years today, and here I thought the first year was bad.” He shook his head, deciding that perhaps a cold shower might be better before dinner, at least to clear his thoughts. Sherlock took in his friend’s words, observed his friend’s crazed eyes, less than straight posture, vulnerable eyes, maniacal grin. It was almost as if he thought-- Oh… OH.

    “You think I’m a hallucination, a coping mechanism to deal with your loss of… me…”

    “Oh, I know you are. You’ve been gone for two years and, well look around. I still can’t let you go. You know,” he began before his expression turned serious, “If you **were** real, I’d strangle you. Because that feeling of the life being choked out of you, that feeling of never being able to breathe again, not being able to think about anything but the terror of unconsciousness? That’s how I’ve felt for the last two Goddamn years.” He let out a harsh breath, hands on his head. Sherlock felt chills run rampant down his spine at the almost calm tone of voice John was speaking in, just a hint of the turbulent feelings hidden underneath it all. This was far from the emotional John he’d spent years living with in the past. Had his “death” affected John that much? Had he cared for him that deeply? The consulting detective couldn’t come up with a response; no quips, silly remarks, gestures, nothing.

    “I never…” he began in a whisper. Never what? He never knew? He never thought? He never considered? Of course he hadn’t done any of those things. The possibility of something between them, something stronger than their perfectly ordinary friendship, had never crossed his mind, never showed up on his radar. He was pulled from his thoughts by John’s continued rambling, the blonde-gray’s voice now full of uncontained fury.

    “I’ve tried to have a normal life for the last two years. I can’t keep a stable relationship, can hardly go outside unless I absolutely have to. Hell! I’m almost as bad as you when it comes to taking care of myself! I barely eat, never go to sleep, sit for hours on end just devoured by my thoughts. Two years of Hell, two years of being an emotional wreck, just hoping that, maybe, one day, out of nowhere, you’d come back! You **bastard**!” John screamed, pain finally making itself known in his voice. Sherlock, devastated at the state of his friend, turned on his heel and quickly walked off to his room, door closing softly behind him. John was breathing heavily, shaking with emotion and failing to hold back the tears now silently streaming down his face as Mrs. Hudson peaks her head through the door, worry etched on her face.

    “John, what’s all this racket? Is everything alright?”

    “It’s nothing, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied, voice as steady as he could make it, staring blankly into space. She didn’t believe him for a second, but left him alone, door shutting quietly as she did so. John took a deep, shuddering breath, head spinning, mind going a mile a minute. He felt his knees buckle, sinking to the floor in front of his armchair and finally letting all the hurt and pain out. Sobs wracked his body, tears pouring from his eyes, mind and body no longer able to deny what he was feeling, the wounded sounds easily carrying through the flat and reaching Sherlock’s ears.

    Sherlock wrapped the sheets tighter around his thinner body, willing his mind to distract him from the agonizing sounds of his flatmate, his friend, his… his… _his_ John’s heart breaking all over again. Mycroft had been right. John hadn’t welcomed him back with open arms upon his return. No, John had rejected the possibility of such a thing even being possible. No matter how hard he tried, however, he couldn’t fall into his usual trance, couldn’t reach his mind palace. The doors into the fortress were locked and barricaded from the inside, the windows blocked, the emergency entrances seemingly nowhere to be found. So, he sat and listened, endured the sounds that, for some reason, tugged at something deep inside, drawing his throat tight, making his eyes water. He tried as hard as he could to keep it together, which was a much harder task than it should’ve been. Finally, after what felt like years, the sounds stopped, but the lack of warmth, the feeling of not having returned home after all, remained in the air. Sleep did not come that night, for either of them.

    Laying awake in bed, he realized that perhaps John wasn’t the only one mourning the loss of someone close.    

 

A/N: Short, I know, but the first chapter **will** be longer. As with my other fics, updates will be sporadic and all over the place. However, Sherlock has been my newest obsession. The proof of that would be that I binged the first 7 episodes of the show in one day (almost eleven hours straight of amazingness on a Sunday before school the next day), and finished the rest of them throughout the same week. So, maybe this’ll get updated sooner, maybe not. Feel free to leave thoughts and questions if you have any. :)


	2. Chapter One: John Watson, Consulting Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bits of Mystrade at the beginning, and sprinkled throughout, then we get the morning after the prologue.

Chapter One: John Watson, Consulting Detective

  


A/N: Into the story we go. I’m excited! *blows out huge breath* So, if anyone is confused, John is reacting to Sherlock’s return like he treated Mary’s death, except opposite, if that makes it any clearer. Thanks to Sophie for the lovely comment that has boosted my confidence quite a bit! :) Enjoy!

  


    Sat on a kitchen chair, cup of hot tea beside him, Mycroft watched the footage of 221B from his laptop once more, listening to the interaction between Dr. Watson and his baby brother with difficulty. When he said that returning to the doctor this suddenly would not end well, he never imagined it would lead to **this**. He drew back from his thoughts when a sob broke out in the video, and it was then that he shut his laptop, distancing himself from it as much as possible. He and John had, with slight difficulty, become friends in the last two years, so to see the man this broken struck a nerve in his “non-existent heart,” as others referred to it as. What affected him more was the look on Sherlock’s face when John had made his pain known, the draining away of any hope he might have had regarding his friend.

    “Myke, why’re you still up?” A gruff voice sounded from behind. Mycroft turned to find Greg Lestrade standing in the kitchen doorway of their shared house, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, pajamas ruffled slightly. “You didn’t come to bed last night.”

    “What time is it?”

    “Around six in the morning. I know you got home late, but what’s kept you up?” Lestrade’s concerned gaze made Mycroft look away and bite his lip as he tried to figure out what to say. He had promised never to lie to him, no matter what the situation, but he couldn’t know, not yet. The detective inspector walked over and pulled out the chair next to him, sitting down. Gently, he tipped the elder Holmes’ chin up, drawing his attention back to him. He saw the sadness in his lover’s eyes, the uncertainty, the conflict. “You don’t have to tell me, but you know that you can, right?” Mycroft nodded, hesitantly placing his hand over Lestrade’s. He was silent for a few moments.

    “I’m concerned about Dr. Watson,” he finally answered.

    “John? Why, what’s happened?” Greg’s concern seemed to double, and Mycroft squeezed his hand reassuringly, lowering it to rest on his lap.

    “He’s been rather… distraught lately, more so than usual.” He opened his laptop back up, the video resuming where he’d left off. Greg watched and listened to John break down, sobbing his heart out, before looking away, closing his eyes to block out the image. Mycroft closed out the video and once again closed the laptop. “He hasn’t willingly ventured outside the flat for the last few months outside of work and shopping for necessities. I fear for his wellbeing if he doesn’t go out and do **something**.” When Greg spoke up, his voice was soft, worried.

    “Do you think he would leave Baker Street for a case? I know you usually help out the Yard, and it wouldn’t be the same, but…”

    “Perhaps. A murder case, if possible?” Greg smiled a little.

    “There are never a shortage of those.” He glanced at the clock. “Join me for a shower? I have to be down there by seven.”

    “If that is what you wish.”

    “It is.” With a shy smile, Mycroft stood and followed Greg, not letting go of his hand as he did so.

 

XxX

 

    John woke up disoriented with his head resting on his arms, seated at the kitchen table. Yawning, he let his eyes adjust to the dark lighting. His memories of the previous day were blurry, and, for once, his dream had changed. He dreamed he’d imagined Sherlock, that he’d finally lost his mind from grief. It was a little unnerving. He tried piecing together yesterday for several minutes. He’d woken up and gone through his morning routine as usual, gotten home, made tea… He… took a shower, a cold shower, warmed up and eaten dinner, brushed his teeth, and went to bed. Nothing too out of the ordinary then. Sitting up, he was pleased to see a plate of biscuits and cup of tea in front of him. He would have to find a way to properly thank Mrs. Hudson for putting up with him. At… He glanced up at the clock he’d bought. It was just turning 6 A.M. Bloody Hell.

    “I borrowed Mrs. Hudson’s recipe for them. I put it back, don’t worry. I just thought they might cheer you up.” John’s head snapped towards the source of the voice. There, Sherlock stood in front of John’s chair in a button down and dark pants, barefoot, curls slightly more messy than usual. Not a dream then. Nevertheless, John turned back towards the plate. He bit into a biscuit, sighing happily at the taste. They seemed fluffier than usual, and just a hint more buttery. Maybe she added something to them? “They’re different.” John nodded in agreement, quickly finishing off the biscuit before scarfing down another one. Sherlock chuckled at the action, watching him finish the plate and sip his tea, before speaking again, softly. “How did you sleep?” John paused before his lips quirked upward at the corners ever so slightly, so slight that Sherlock wouldn’t have seen it unless he was looking for it.

    “I slept. I… actually slept. Only around four, but… yeah.” ‘ _And only from exhaustion_ ,’ he added in his thoughts, but he wouldn’t say that aloud. The statement brought a relieved smile to Sherlock’s face.

    “Feeling up to a stroll around London then? You haven’t been out much lately.” Mycroft had told him as much when he got back to London. By lately, he was told, he meant months. That had to change. John actually seemed to consider the question. This was good.

    “Maybe. I haven’t in awhile, have I? Wait, I have work. I can’t just--”

    “I called in for you, said you were sick, had come down with something awful. You have the rest of the week off.” Sherlock had taken every precaution to ensure nothing and no one would disrupt the plan set in store for John this week. Sherlock took a deep breath, his thoughts wandering for a moment. He’d done this: the isolation, the despair and depression, the lack of social interactions as of late. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to fix that. Sherlock had texted Mycroft when sleep eluded him, a little after John had gone silent last night, with a request of help; help him get John out of Baker Street, back to some form of normalcy in life. His brother had suggested something the two had done together on the past. A walk through town then.

    “What--?” John plucked his phone off the table, looking through the call logs and, sure enough, there was a call to the surgery there. When did he even…? Oh. Last night, when he’d had his little mental breakdown. His memory was a bit fuzzy after all. He must’ve called then. God, he hoped he wasn’t going insane and losing _time_ now and not just his sanity. “Alright then. I’ll get dressed then, shall I?” Without another word, he stood, heading towards his room, wincing at the stiffness of his back. When he was out of sight, Sherlock released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He’d agreed. Thank goodness. Hurrying to his own room, he finished dressing, in his usual outing attire, silently making his way back into the middle of the flat just behind John, who made his way downstairs and out the door.

    With hesitancy and an attempt at cheer, Sherlock asked, “Doesn’t it feel good to be out and about?” Sherlock knew he wasn’t being himself, not really, not when he would rather have just dragged John with him to nowhere in particular to straighten things out, whether through discussion or an actual greeting, perhaps involving-- This train of thought itself was rather unusual for him, if he thought about it. But then again, was a hug so out of the question? Perhaps John wasn’t the only one who thought they were losing their mind.

    “I… hadn’t realized how much I missed it until now.” The early spring brought slightly chilly air, but the budding flowers and sunshine that filtered through the small thicket of clouds up above just right produced a rather beautiful morning. Traffic was light, for now, and the city was quiet, though not completely silent. It never really was. They strolled through the streets together, not needing to worry about being recognized or spotted at the current hour. The silence that had endured through the walk for the past hour or so soon disappeared as Sherlock, and his suddenly overactive conscious, spoke up rather quietly.

    “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking straight ahead in the direction they were walking. John turned his head to look at him.

    “… What?” He stopped. Sherlock turned to look at him, remorseful.

    “I’m. Sorry,” Sherlock annunciated. “I never knew I’d drive you to this. I should’ve told you.” John only stared at him for a moment before he continued walking, silence returning for a time. Their surroundings were little more than blurs of color, their only real focus on each other. They stopped every now and then, looking over the city, over the water, over the scenery. They spent hours in companionable silence, just taking in the sights together for the first time in two years. At around noon, they (as in John) picked up some takeout that they ate along the rest of their walk around the edge of the city. After a couple more hours, they headed back through the city into more familiar parts. Eventually, John spoke again, quiet, almost reserved.

    “Yeah, you should’ve,” came his reply. “But then, I’ll never get the answers I want, will I?” He stopped once more, and it took Sherlock a moment to realize they were coming back around Baker Street, looking around in mild confusion. He hadn’t even noticed they’d gone in a circle around the city. Before he could say anything, Lestrade came striding down the sidewalk. Sherlock quickly ducked into an alleyway between buildings, much to John’s confusion.

    “John! You’re out and about for once! Got a minute?” The detective inspector skidded to a stop in front of him, a grin practically splitting his face almost in two. John smoothed down his jacket before replying, curious.                

    “Um, sure, yeah. Something wrong?” Sherlock observed unobtrusively from the alleyway. Phase two of the plan, though Greg was unaware of his being alive.

    “I… I know you don’t usually… take cases, but I was wondering if you’d look into something for me.” He took a file folder out of his jacket, smile still present on his face. John accepted the item, skimming through it before glancing back at Greg.

    “What’s got you all smiley today, Greg?” The detective inspector had the nerve to blush, smile turning sheepish. Sherlock took a closer look at him. Jacket, ring, blush, expressions, John, Lestrade, his thoughts supplied. ‘ _His new jacket suggests someone bought it for him as a gift, an expensive gift. Not new, but very well taken care of. A favorite then. Blushing. A gift from a lover then. Knowing Greg, a long term relationship. New girlfriend? Maybe, probably, most likely. Oo. Must be very serious. There’s a promise ring hanging around the man’s neck on a chain. Why a promise ring? Well, Greg wouldn’t be one to hide a marriage or engagement, and by the way John’s smiling, he seems to already know why Greg seems so suddenly lovestruck. He had something to do with getting the two together with a knowing expression like that. Who would John go to the trouble of getting together with Lestrade, however? It can’t be just any woman; that’s not either of their styles. Someone they both know… Not an ex, not a stranger… Mutual friend? Possibly. Mmm… co-worker? Maybe not._ ’

    “He, uh… we… at the station, not in front of people! He…”

    “Is it something serious? You live together, he gave you a promise ring… Did he say, “I love you?”” The detective inspector looked away now with a soft chuckle.

    “No, nothing overly serious. It’s just… you know how he is with affection, words rather than action, isn’t one for “trivial conversation” or nonsense. He’s not a touchy feely person, but he… kissed me, in my office.” Greg would **not** mention the make out session they’d had in the shower this morning. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. _He_ ? He **had** missed much while he was away, Dear God. But, wait. The two lived together? He filed that away for later reference. He watched John smile and clap the man on the shoulder.

    “Well, congrats, mate. Jesus, imagine the look on Sherlock’s face if he knew about you two. He’d lose his head. So this case. Murder?” Greg seemed shocked at the mention of his name, Sherlock observed. Why is that? Wait, lose his head if he knew about Greg and whom being together? After an overly long shocked pause, Greg answered.

    “Uh, yes. We suspect a serial killer. Same MO, same time of death, same message scrawled across the crime scene, “ _For the ones we’ve lost_ .” It’s baffling. We know it’s a serial killer, but we have zero suspects and plenty of leads that take us nowhere. Myke offered to help, this morning. We, well, _I_ thought you might rather like a case, like old times.” John gave him a grim stare.

    “We’ve talked about this, Greg. I told you that I am more than happy to examine a body, but I will not help you solve crimes like some, some.” ‘ _God forbid_ ,’ he thought. “ _Consulting detective_.” Lestrade crossed his arms and sighed as John attempted to hand him back the file.

    “Fine, I’m calling in that favor, then.” John gave an exasperated groan.

    “That’s not fair, and you know it,” he argued, but let the arm with file file fall to his side.  

    “Well, it’s either that, or Myke can arrange for you to be brought to Scotland Yard. **I** could, actually.” As he said that, a black car rolled to a stop alongside them in the street. John looked incredulous and Sherlock refused to believe his eyes. There was a perfectly good explanation to this, wasn’t there? John once again groaned.

    “There’s no use saying no, is there?” Greg shook his head, motioning for John to get in first. John did so reluctantly, and Greg followed. It was then that Sherlock realized he’d have to follow them another way as they drove off. Great. Glancing around and emerging from the alleyway, Sherlock spotted someone parking a motorbike in front of Speedy’s. Briskly walking towards them, he bumped into them, quickly picking the keys out of their pocket with a hasty fake apology. He waited until their back was turned while they were inside before climbing on, starting it up, and speeding off. Reviewing the mental map of London in his head, he went through all the possible routes Mycroft’s car could take them. When he narrowed it down to just a few, all relatively within the same ETA, he adjusted his own to get there a little before John and Lestrade.

    He zipped down quiet streets, through the normal road traffic, down through the underground, until he came to a halt down the street from a small designer store. Yellow tape blocked off entry to the back as a few squad cars surrounded the building from the street. Sherlock slipped into the shadows, staying out of sight and going around the other way, cutting behind other buildings. He stopped short just a few feet of the crime scene. It looked oddly familiar, and it was almost like he was having an out of body experience as he saw himself lying in place of the victim for a moment. He shook his head. Snap out of it. John had his back to him, leaning down and examining the body while Greg and Mycroft spoke quietly to one another, looking overly fond. Why in the world? Greg leaned down next to John to look over the body, which is when Mycroft motioned furiously to him to get out of sight before either of them noticed. Greg stood after another minute, bidding the other two farewell, and it was then that Sherlock emerged. He strode up behind John and took a look at the victim as well, but not before antagonizing his brother.

    “Something you’re not telling me, brother? You looked like a teenage girl who just returned home from her first date, not that you’d have any experience in that area. Girls tended to avoid you like the plague.” John failed to stifle a giggle, and Mycroft fought extremely hard not to scowl and whack his baby brother upside the head. Doctor Watson is unaware of Sherlock’s return being legitimate. Springing it on him now would only be disastrous, for his health and sanity. Besides, Sherlock had made him promise not to say a word, that it was _his_ duty to inform John of his return and his time spent away. He now wondered why he agreed to such a thing.

    “Something funny, Doctor Watson? Did you find a joke scrawled across our murder victim?” he snapped, trying to bring attention back to the case. John returned to being serious after another giggle escaped him, going into doctor mode.

    “No, though there is a note attached to… Snowdrops?” He held up the stem of a bundle of drooping white flowers with ovular shaped petals ending in a sort of rounded point. Early blooming flowers. It was the beginning of spring, after all.

    “The flowers don’t matter. What does the note say?” Mycroft questioned.

    “ _For the ones we’ve lost_. Mean anything to you?” Mycroft shook his head. Sherlock seemed perplexed, John noticed.

    ‘ _Snowdrops, snowdrops… Why do they seem so familiar_?’ Sherlock asked himself.  

    “Time of death: three P.M. Cause of death: impact upon hitting the ground, resulting in a crushed skull--”

    “Exactly the same as the others. We knew that going in. Anything else?” Mycroft asked impatiently.

    “Well, I don’t know. You’re the one who can do deductions here. Do **you** see anything else?”

    “Look under his jacket,” Sherlock told John quietly, only loud enough for him to hear. He stood right over his flatmate’s shoulder, staring at the unmoved jacket on the body. Something about it was… off. John analyzed the jacket before he saw burned ends of fabric on the victim’s upper left. He told as much to both of them, who hadn’t noticed it, before pulling it aside. Where their heart would have been, there was a gaping hole of burnt flesh.

    “Dear God,” John exclaimed quietly. ‘ _Sherlock would’ve loved this_.’ “Well, this just got interesting.”

    “Interesting indeed,” Mycroft whispered in equal measures intrigue and horror. He hated death, murder especially. It was unnerving and made his insides turn. He didn’t know why he agreed to take the case. He thinks fondly, however, of the things he does for Greg before returning to the task at hand.

    “So, same M.O., same time of death, same message… Do you think the killer’s trying to tell us something?” John directed the question at Sherlock, though he faced Mycroft when he asked it.

    “This is your forte, Doctor Watson, not mine. After all, you are consulting detective today.” John stood, an eyebrow raised.

    “Oh yeah? So what does that make you?”

    “Emotional support,” he deadpanned. He paused for a moment. “It **is** good to see you out of the flat, John.” John, for the first time in over two years, gave a small, but genuine smile.

    “It’s good to be back in whatever way I can. I can’t sulk forever, now can I?”

    “No, I suppose not.” Leaning down by the body, trying to keep as straight a face as possible, Mycroft rattled off what he could observe.

    “Judging by the state of our victim’s clothing, they were wealthy, though not in an honest line of work if the tattoo on their neck is any indication. They were part of some sort of crime syndicate, though not one I recognize…” He sighed, quickly looked over the rest of the body. He didn’t touch anything longer than necessary, even with the plastic gloves on his hands. “From the position, it seems they fell of their own accord or were pushed from behind, facing away from the building. No other signs of injury or a scuffle prior to their little trip down from the roof. No sign of a phone on their person or any form of identification. British male, late thirties, no family, no relatives, no one to miss his presence should he vanish.” Taking off and discarding the gloves, he pulls out his phone to take a few pictures of the neck tattoo for later reference. After that, he stood up again, staring at John, almost daring him to question his deductions.

    “Crime syndicate you said?” Turning the victim’s head a little, he saw an impossibly small mass of symbols and letters interwoven in a strange pattern, forming some abstract shape. The letters he could make out were an m, two c’s, and a j. “What in the world…? I haven’t a clue.” He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who shrugged, lost in equal measure. John mentally slapped himself. He’s in your head! He knows only what you know. Why would you ask him if he recognized the symbol when you obviously don’t? He shook his head as he stood. Sherlock is gone. He’s not standing behind you on a case. He’s buried six feet under in a cemetery on the other side of the city. “Should we let forensics take it from here?”      

    “It would be wise,” Mycroft answered.

    As they began leaving the scene, going to find Lestrade, Sherlock told John softly, “Don’t listen to him. The flowers **are** important. The snowdrops mean _something_ , I just can’t remember what.” He had a slightly crazed look in his eye, the kind he got when he had an answer on the tip of his tongue, but just couldn’t quite put all the pieces together. John nodded nonetheless, not noticing him come back the way he came to avoid being seen. Snowdrops weren’t an unusual sight--well, perhaps at a crime scene. Mildly poisonous if eaten, they symbolize hope for the beginning of spring and the end of the current winter. Beyond that and their lovely appearance, there wasn’t anything of significance about them that either of them could recall.

    “I assume I’ll have to find a cab home?” John questioned as he and Mycroft reached Lestrade, who was discussing something that looked important with Anderson.

    “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not so like my brother that I would leave you without transportation.” Lestrade shooed Anderson away a little after that, turning to his partner and friend.

    “Well? Find anything?” he inquired.

    “Nothing that will lead us anywhere, except perhaps the symbol on his neck, though I’ve never seen anything like it before. I’ll run it through my databases and see what I can find.”

    “What symbol?” He showed the detective inspector the photographs on his phone. “Could you make any sense of that?”

    “I could pick out three different letters,” John began explaining, “An m, c, which appears twice, and a j. Haven’t the faintest idea what they mean. Maybe they’re an acronym, perhaps initials. Other than that, I’m a lost cause.”

    “Thanks for looking anyway. It’s great to have you back, John,” Lestrade stated with a small smile. As he and Mycroft were driven back to Baker Street, John couldn’t help but feel a huge weight being lifted from his shoulders. Granted, there was still plenty left there, but he could, for some reason, breathe a little easier now that he’d engaged in something that, two years ago, would’ve been daily routine. As he sat in his chair in 221B, facing Sherlock, he couldn’t help but think that it was good to be back.  

  


Closing A/N: Aaaaand there’s chapter one. It’s weird, because I usually post prologues with the first chapter (as in within five minutes of each other) and epilogues with the last chapter. It took me a while to actually get the story moving. This might be the last update for who knows how long because I have a fic request to finish and a fic chapter set during Thanksgiving to start, but I hope I haven’t disappointed. See y’all next chapter!


	3. Chapter Two: Returns

Chapter Two: Returns

 

A/N: This chapter just kind of went all over the place, forewarning. Definitely taking a break after this because I have papers to write and homework I should’ve done instead of writing this. Picks right up where we left off. Enjoy!

 

    They had to mean something, he knew they did. Sherlock sat across from John in his old chair back at 221B as they returned from the case. He was sat in his infamous thinking pose, eyes closed, buried deep in his mind palace. Snowdrops, snowdrops… He felt like he knew them, their importance, but why couldn’t he remember? His memories concerning them were fuzzy at best, and there seemed to be something he was missing, but he’d look into it later. He found himself back at his childhood home, out in the yard. _He wandered a little ways out into a field of greenery and flowers, snowdrops growing in clusters around the edge of his vision, along a wooden fence. An unknown amount of time flashed by. The setting sun made him raise a hand to shield his eyes, and he could see Mycroft running ahead of him as they chased each other, laughter echoing in the air, before the sound of a woman calling to them caused them to turn back. Sherlock picked a few of the snowdrops as they returned home, knowing they were a favorite of… Of--_

    The consulting detective’s eyes snapped open at the sound of shattering dishes. He was irked, but at the same time it seemed not to matter. He never would’ve figured out who loved the flowers. _Why couldn’t he remember them?_ His gaze settled on John, who was quickly picking up the shards scattered across the kitchen floor, facing him.

    As he threw them away, he questioned, “And you didn’t make me biscuits and tea for breakfast? You’re absolutely positive?”

    “Of course I am!” Mrs. Hudson told him, facing away from Sherlock, and the detective felt relieved she hadn’t caught sight of him. “I may be old, but my memory is quite intact.” John tugged at his hair futily, not understanding. He ate breakfast this morning, he was sure of it. The plate and teacup were still there, unmoved from their places this morning.“Are you sure you’re alright, John? You’ve been acting quite strange lately.”

    “What the fuck is wrong with me?” John asked himself quietly. Food doesn’t just magically appear. Someone had to have made it. He figured then that answering the question might be better than trying to reason with himself. “I’m fine, I assure you, just a bit out of sorts. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

    “Oh, I heard. I thought the sobbing would never stop. How about I make you your favorite tonight as a way to cheer you up?”

    “I don’t need cheering up. I’ve been out all day. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

    “It is, but that doesn’t mean your spirits have lifted and you’re as merry as can be. I’ll bring it up in a bit.” She exited the flat, heading downstairs, and it was only then that Sherlock spoke.

    “You’re not going crazy, John,” Sherlock murmured, an indiscernible look in his eyes. He didn’t know what to do, how to approach him.

    “How am I not? I’m having a cry at well past midnight over my best friend who died two years ago. I keep seeing said best friend everywhere I go and unexplainable things keep happening that make me sound like a madman! Care to elaborate on how I’m **not** going crazy, Sherlock?” John mentally berated himself before snapping, “Why am I even talking to you? You’re not even bloody there!” He turned, attempting once again to make tea. His voice became soft, quivering with sadness. “You’re not there, as much as I wish you were, and when I turn around…” That unfinished thought was his second mistake. He gulped, pausing to get himself together. Sherlock had already guessed his next words, silently slinking out the door as he felt a stab of pain in his heart. _And when I turn around, you’ll be gone_. It was clear that John didn’t want his presence, nor his touch for comfort, so he would give his flatmate the room he so _desperately_ desired.

    John felt the room temperature drop a few degrees, as if the mood had sucked the warmth out of it, and he whipped around to find an empty sitting room. A sigh. He put the kettle on to boil before taking a seat in his chair once again, head in his hands. He only moved when Mrs. Hudson returned, thanking her for looking after him, for real this time. She only smiled and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

    Meanwhile, Sherlock strolled unseen through the shadowy alleys and streets of London, out of sight of any passerby save the occasional member of his homeless network, who knew to keep their mouth shut. Several things about the case struck him as odd. First, it was the snowdrops, which he would ponder more later. Next, it was the feeling he got at the crime scene. The victim had died by falling off a building, falling to their death, much in the way he was supposed to meet his end. The words didn’t seem as bizarre, but what really got to him was the burned hole where the victim’s heart should be. Suddenly, a sinister voice echoed in his mind, and the breath was knocked out of him immediately after. He stumbled, catching himself on the brick wall of a building, not believing he could miss something so obvious. There could only be one explanation.

     _I will burn **the heart** out of you._  

    Moriarty. Moriarty was alive.

    But how? Sherlock saw him blow his brains out on the roof of Bart’s. He saw with his own eyes the life draining out of his mortal enemy, so **how**? He had eliminated every bit of the consulting criminal’s network in the last two years. The last member had been a Serbian he was lucky enough to avoid torture from. Well, torture too painful, anyway. He’d been assured by Mycroft that his job outside of England was done, that he could return. He either missed someone or there was about to be a dangerous player returning to the game. Regardless, his brother needed to be informed, as much of a bother as it was to Sherlock. So, when Mycroft had just finished up a meeting at his office, fully ready to go home to his warm bed and loving partner, he was rather annoyed when Sherlock barged in as if he owned the place, probably here to cause a scene and--

    “What did you say?” the older brother inquired as the curly haired man continued ranting.

    “With the way they were murdered and the burned out heart, it **has** to be him. There’s no one else who would know those words apart from John--”

    “Wait, Sherlock. Who are you talking about and what words?” Sherlock stared at him as if he were the biggest idiot he’d ever met.

    “Who else would leave a string of murders with hidden messages personally addressed to me? And the words make one of the messages so obvious. _I will burn the heart out of you_. That’s what he said to me the first time we were properly introduced. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I was so obsessed with the flowers--”

    “Do you have any proof that Moriarty is indeed alive? Photographs, security footage, an account from one of your network, a face to face meeting with him?” He didn’t have time for this. Jim Moriarty was dead, his body buried where no one could disturb it, he’d been assured. He had complete faith in his staff and the ramblings of his brother would not turn him against them.

    “The proof is the case. Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock looked furious that he wasn’t being taken seriously. Mycroft grumbled under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose.

    “Until there’s a sighting of him, we will continue on as if he were no longer with the land of the living. I cannot go about raising a panic because of your suspicions.” He stood, fully intending to leave now. Sherlock, of course, had to have the last word.

    “Do you treat her well?” he asked innocently enough, though the question was snarled. Mycroft froze halfway out the now flung open door. He turned around slowly, trying to keep a straight face.

    “Whatever are you talking about?”

    “The hickey on your neck. It wasn’t there earlier, meaning in the time between the crime scene, taking John back to Baker Street, and your several meetings, you’ve seen her. **Do you treat her well**?” he asked again, trying to emphasize his question. Mycroft smirked coldly.

    “Tread carefully, brother mine, or I fear I may bring up a rather painful subject for you,” he replied, about to walk away before adding, “And I treat **him** like royalty.” He watched in satisfaction as his brother’s eyes widened in shock before finally leaving, making it an effort later that night to kiss the living daylights out of Greg.      

XxX

    John lay awake in bed that night, trying, and failing successfully, to clear his thoughts enough to fall asleep. Nothing more had been found regarding the case, so he’d spent the rest of the day sipping tea and sitting in his armchair. He closed his eyes once again, hoping he could get some amount of shut eye before the morning. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it was still dark outside his window when he heard the faint notes of the violin. Startled, he made his way downstairs clad in only his trousers, trying to find the source of the music. In his favorite dressing gown stood Sherlock, facing towards the fireplace, violin in playing position, soft melodies waving through the air. The golden glow the fire cast across his face made him look like an illuminated ghost, and John supposed he was.

    Without looking up or opening his eyes, Sherlock asked, “Can’t sleep either?”

    John shook his head before verbally answering, “No, not at all.” He stepped towards the detective hesitantly, the music soothing his nerves some. When he was within touching distance, he took a gamble and wrapped his arms around the taller man from behind with more confidence than he felt. The melody faltered for a moment before resuming, only this time, Sherlock swayed with it. John followed his movements, feeling his thoughts race less and less. Heat from the fire and Sherlock’s body calmed him, quieted his mind for a while. He felt his breathing begin to even out. An immeasurable amount of time passed before John spoke up, voice hardly above a whisper, unshed tears in his words. “I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.”

    “I heard you,” Sherlock whispered back just as tearily. He stopped playing, placed the violin and bow on the mantle, turned in his best friend’s arms, watery ocean blue eyes wide open. “I’m right here. I’m here, John.” The army doctor squeezed his eyes shut, clinging to Sherlock for dear life. “And… even if I weren’t, if… if I were somewhere else in the world, and we were still apart… Just know… I will **_always_** come back to you.” John drifted in and out of consciousness for a few minutes as he absorbed the words spoken to him. In that time, Sherlock had carried him bridal style up the stairs and into his room, tucking him in and whispering, “Goodnight,” before closing the door silently behind him as he crept back downstairs. John slept peacefully for the rest of the night.

    The next morning, he planned on making tea and then going out to restock the fridge which, now that he thought about it, had been empty yesterday. He sat down in his chair after setting the kettle on the stove. When the kettle boiled, John was slow to get up and pour the water for his tea, consumed by the wonderful feelings left by his dream last night. It had felt so **real**. Sherlock was in his arms, practically serenading him, alive and well, concerned for his wellbeing. What he wouldn’t give for that to become a reality. So when he got around to the kettle, he found himself nursing hands burned by scalding water bubbling and gushing onto the stove. It was then that a set of words, ones he thought nothing of at the time, no more than an insult, came to the forefront of his mind. _I will burn the heart out of you_. No. It couldn’t be. After soothing his red, still overly warm hands, he quickly went upstairs and got dressed, grabbing his coat when he got back into the room. He ran down the steps and out the door, hailing a cab. Looks like today was Scotland Yard’s lucky day.

XxX

    Greg was surprised to see John walking towards his desk in Scotland Yard, without him having received a text or call from Mycroft or himself. It was clear that the man had something important on his mind, so he began doubling his efforts to sort through the work currently laid out in front of him. “John! What can I do for you today?”

    “I’ll take it,” he responded. Greg stopped flipping through the files currently set on his desk, hands stilling in shock and confusion.

    “What?”

    “I’ll take it, the case.” The detective inspector blinked owlishly at him. “Consider it a ten,” he added. At that, Greg stood up and motioning for John to follow. They went further into the building until they came across a small, rather luxurious office space (at least, it was to John). It housed many comfortable looking pieces of expensive furniture and at its center, sat at his covered desk, looking at compiled reports about all of the case’s victims, was Mycroft. The British government-- _man of_ the British government was scowling at the marked up reports, pen in his hand threatening to crack and send ink splashing across the desk. “Moriarty’s alive,” he stated simply as he stopped walking. Mycroft groaned in frustration, putting his pen down none too gently and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Greg, a moment, if you will.”

    “ ‘Course,” he told him, leaving and shutting the door on his way out, hoping John was only saying that to get his attention. Hoping.

    When Mycroft was sure he was out of earshot, he glared at John and hissed, “Not you too. As I’ve told everyone, multiple times, Jim Moriarty is **dead**. I saw to it that his corpse was properly disposed of. I have trusted employees who can confirm that it was.”

    “ _I will burn **the heart** out of you_. Ever heard those words before?” Mycroft froze, having to make an effort not to let his mask slip. This couldn’t be happening.

    “No, I can’t say I have.” His eyes scanned briefly over John, but he couldn’t deduce anything out of the ordinary except for the fact that he had actually gotten a decent night’s sleep. He watched John smirk triumphantly. Mycroft frowned at the action.

    “You know,” he began, leaning forward across the desk. “One of the great things about being around Sherlock so much is the many habits you pick up from him. Your eyes are more expressive than you think. As soon as you denied those words, you tried to deduce me because I knew something that you thought I shouldn’t. The way you reacted to me when I said Moriarty was dead. And “Not you too?” No one else could’ve possibly mentioned Moriarty to you regarding the case unless it were Sherlock himself because we were the only two there when he said those words. Even if you had footage of us, I doubt the words would’ve stuck with you as anything more than an empty threat. So, what are you hiding, Mycroft?” He cursed his brother, wherever he may be at the moment. It seemed Doctor Watson himself was beginning to be able to deduce. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or wary, perhaps a mixture of both. He sighed nonetheless, however, as he’d just discovered a peculiar connection between the victims.

    “Very well. Very recently, just before you came in, in fact, I discovered something rather troubling. The victims **are** all connected, through Moriarty. Apparently, while--” He had been about to say, “While Sherlock was away.” Dammit, he was slipping. John noticed the pause, so he quickly spun a half truth. “While we were investigating Jim Moriarty’s connections, to see if he had a network outside of London, we neglected to check London itself. An agent was sent out to dispose of the international web, having just returned this week. When news of certain members of the web’s demise spread, a murder would come up, just like the one we looked at earlier.”

    “But why would he kill his own allies--?”

    “That’s what I’m trying to tell you: he wouldn’t. He can’t. If it weren’t for those allies, he would never have been able to station assassins at Baker Street, or order snipers to keep eyes on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg. Whoever **is** doing this knows who we are, knows what we know, knows what to leave behind to get our attention. Most importantly, they knew Jim Moriarty. Just because they’re dismantling the rest of his network, however, does not make them an ally, and we’d do well to take precautions going forward.” Before John could say another word, Mycroft’s phone went off, signaling an incoming text, John thought. Really, it was a reminder set to inform him of important business to attend to at two the next day. So  **that** was tomorrow. Lovely.

    “I wish I could stay and continue this _enlightening_ conversation,” Mycroft began, statement dripping with sarcasm, “But I’m afraid that duty calls elsewhere. Feel free to look through the information I have on the case if you’d like.” He got up and strolled out of his second office. Balancing the duties of the Yard and the government were not easy, but it was necessary where Moriarty was involved. He prayed to whatever was out there that that was not the case as he got into the back of one of his cars, which drove him off towards Buckingham Palace. Maybe a meeting with the leader of Sokovia would be less stressful than this.

XxX

    The “dreams” continued to be as vivid as that night. He’d had several since the day he’d accompanied Lestrade to the murder that brought him out of 221B. Some were simple, he and Sherlock sharing a cup of tea at three in the morning, a midnight stroll in the park involving fish and chips and sitting on benches and chatting the night away, simply coming downstairs after endless tossing and turning to sit across from Sherlock in the sitting room, by the fire. The latest dream would be the last pleasant one for a while. It was just after midnight, and John found himself screaming as he shot up into a sitting position in bed. He’d seen the fall from Bart’s again, only this time as if it were one of the case murders.

     _John stumbled over to Sherlock’s body, trying to push through the crowd of people surrounding his best friend. “Please, he’s my friend. He’s my…” His words were cut off when he felt for a pulse. **There was no pulse**. No. No, he can’t… He can’t be… Dead… He’d had no idea he’d said the words aloud until there were people pulling him away, loading Sherlock’s body onto a stretcher. Time froze then, and John broke free, shot forward to Sherlock’s side. In his coat pocket, there was a bundle of snowdrops, with a note saying **For the one who’s lost it all**. Pulling the lapels back further, he discovered a hole burned into his chest where his heart should be. He cradled the head of his best friend, staring lostly into empty, dead eyes that would haunt his every waking moment for the next two years. As he stared, all he could see reflected in the eyes was the fall, and he found himself standing where he’d been earlier. _

_Confused, he became aware of the phone tucked against his ear. “Goodbye, John,” he heard._

_“No, don’t…” He watched as his best friend fell once more, mind filled with the horror he’d just seen._

_“SHERLOCK!”_

    With difficulty, John untangled his legs from his sheets, hastily making his way downstairs for a cup of tea. He would not go anywhere near his bed right now. Fumbling around in the kitchen, he didn’t notice Sherlock look up at the sound of his footsteps, sat by the fire with a book in his lap. “John?” he questioned. The army doctor jumped, spilling water on the floor before whirling around. Sherlock was once again in a dressing gown, red this time, and John collapsed heavily onto a kitchen chair. Sherlock dashed over to his side, book forgotten, tossed into the flames. “John, are you alright?” He noticed the cold sweat John was trying to wipe away with his pajama sleeves, his hair’s chaotic state, tears nearly falling from his eyes.

“No, I’m not alright. I’m not even here. You're not even here.”

“What--?”

    “I’m back in front of Bart’s leaning over your dead body, hands covered in your blood, unable to find a pulse, **grieving** for you. I’m still there. I don’t think I ever left.” Sherlock, furious at himself beyond belief, would not have any more of this.

    “John, look at me.” He got no response nor movement. “ _John Hamish Watson, **look at me**_.” Head whipping up, John saw the caring, concerned eyes of his best friend gazing at him softly. “I’m **here** , and so are you. I’m not going anywhere, not this time. I’m here.” John stood, and Sherlock could see tears now freely falling, running down his face and dripping onto his clothes. Gently, Sherlock wiped the tears away, thumb brushing John’s cheeks. John leaned into the touch before speaking as steadily as he could.

    “I never even got a chance to tell you,” he murmured, looking to Sherlock in despair.

    “Tell me what?” He watched John gulp, closing his eyes as more tears fell.

    “I never knew how to bring it up, whether or not to just tell you outright. I…” He let out a harsh breath. “ ** _I love you_**.” Sherlock felt all the air leave his lungs at those words. “I never knew how much until I lost you, but you were the light of my life. Maybe it was more as family, maybe romantically. I still don’t know, but what I do know is that life is almost not worth living without you…” Sherlock pulled him into his arms, embracing him tight as he felt a sob rip through his best friend.

    “I don’t deserve you, John. I’m no hero, no angel, no one’s friend except yours. I can never be grateful enough for your friendship, your care. What I can tell you is that your feelings… They aren’t unrequited.” John pulled back, not believing his ears. It was then that they met each other for a passionate kiss, holding desperately onto the other, not daring to break apart except for quick catch breaths. They eventually found themselves tangled up together on John’s bed, holding each other under the sheets as the kisses continued, along the other’s jaw, neck, and back to their lips again. After a final, lingering kiss, John found himself falling asleep in Sherlock’s arms, and just before he fell unconscious, he heard a timid, but clear, “I love you too.”    

XxX

    It had been a month since the last murder from the case. No examining of the body in the morgue could yield any more evidence or clues about their killer. No stray hairs, fingerprints, DNA, nothing. No more leads. John and Mycroft had since debriefed Sherlock on the newest discoveries, and he found that a walk was a very good distraction from the information he had yet to fully process. Deducing passerby grew boring after a few hours, however, and his transport was suggesting food after his now four days of not eating. Deciding to head back to Baker Street for a meal, Sherlock turned, going past a mass of buildings at least ten stories high along both sides of the street. As he walked onto a new street, the sound of something being crushed-- No. The sound of something landing heavily behind him, contents being crushed on impact, caused him to pause, as did the feeling of liquid splashing the bottom of his pants, coat billowing in the wind. Slowly, he turned, finding a woman who was clearly part of some secret government organization with her head smashed into the pavement, blood pooling around her head. A bundle of snowdrops were clutched in her hand, and a circle was carved through her kevlar vest, no doubt where the killer would burn out the victim’s heart.

    Glancing up, he could make out a shadowy figure covered from head to toe in dark clothing, making it impossible to distinguish features or height, not that that would’ve been easy this far down. They seemed to drop something before turning and disappearing from view. He quickly looked over the victim, not wanting to be seen looking over a dead body by a stranger passing by. Neck tattoo, snowdrops, no other physical injuries aside from the crushed skull and multiple broken and shattered bones upon impact. The burned out heart came last, he knew, meaning the killer went to the crime scene right after their victim’s death to leave the mark. Except for this time. The killer had seen him, no doubt opting not to return to the body and finish the job. Sherlock pulled out his phone to text Mycroft.

_4th and Westminster. Another murder. Killer in vicinity. They didn’t finish the job. Bring John._

_SH_

    As soon as he sent the text to Mycroft, whatever the killer had dropped was floating down towards him, within reach. He gently caught the folded piece of paper. The scrawl on the inside seemed vaguely familiar, but he ignored that in favor of the words he read. _For the ones we’ve lost_ , it said, but there was something else as well. It may have been a trick of the light, an odd discoloration of the paper, but he doubted it. He ducked under the overhang above the building, pulling out a small UV penlight from his coat pocket. He shined it on the blank space at the bottom of the note. _By the one who wants to be found._ The one who wants to be found? The words did nothing but puzzle Sherlock further, and it wasn’t long before Mycroft and a unit from Scotland Yard were pulling up in front of the building. Sherlock hid in the shadows, watching the forensics team scramble around the scene without a clue. Mycroft and John knelt down beside the victim, and Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat.

    John. Oh God. He’d taken advantage of the man in his vulnerable state last night, told him he’d loved him. It was not a lie, but to carry on after, fall asleep holding him in his arms, wake up to see his tear streaked face… He didn’t see how John could even look at him now. But look he did. He looked on longingly, as if aching to say something to him. Of course, he couldn’t, not with Mycroft around, but the impulse was there. John turned his attention back to the body that lay in front of him, however, looking at the clothing for any evidence. The kevlar vest didn’t seem quite right, so he poked and prodded until he came across the circular carving.  

    “Mycroft,” John mumbled as he saw a small piece of paper underneath the carved circle in the vest. Ripping the circle off, he extracted the paper, throat going dry when he read it.

    “What does it say?” Sherlock asked, causing Mycroft to take the paper from John and read it aloud.

    “ _You’re getting warmer_.” The two looked to Sherlock, who stared at the body, felt the note burning a hole in his coat pocket, felt a sense of dread and thrill. “Let’s hand this over to Scotland Yard now, shall we?” This was Mycroft’s way of telling Sherlock, _Leave now, we’ll discuss things later_. Without another glance at either of them, Sherlock turned and disappeared between the buildings, briefly bumping into someone as he hurried on, deciding that a meal was out of the question now. He stumbled as his stomach growled and vision blurred for a moment. Maybe not.

    He stumbled into the flat, wolfing down dinner leftovers and takeout boxes from the fridge. Despite this, his vision continued blurring, head suddenly feeling as if it would explode. A pinprick in his abdomen alerted him to the small slow acting tranquilizer dart sticking out of him. He quickly pulled it out, but couldn’t stop himself from collapsing onto the floor from the kitchen table. His phone alerted him to a text from Mycroft, and he crawled to the sitting room, picking it up off the table.

_Coming over now. You’re hiding something._

_M_

    He had just enough energy left to call his brother and fling the phone under John’s chair before he lost feeling in his limbs, fighting to keep his eyes open. A familiar man walked into the flat, going over to and crouching next to Sherlock, smirking evilly. “You told me you weren’t an angel. Mmm… Well, John Watson certainly thinks you’re one. You don’t know how to explain to him that, “I’m alive! I’m here! I came back!” He chuckled lowly as the detective’s eyes widened as much as they could in surprise. “Sherrrlock,” he called out in a sing song way. “Am I so dangerous… That you’re willing to drive the man you care about most insane, to protect him?” He frowned at the confused look he got. “You didn’t know,” he realized. “Until the murders happened, you didn’t know about the rest of my followers. Oh, Sherlock… An evil angel it is… Or maybe you really are clueless when it comes to people.” Sherlock scowled at the man who should’ve been dead crouching beside him.

    “Mor… iarty,” he hissed.

    “Hiiiii,” he greeted, much like he had at the pool.

    “Go… to Hell.”

    “No, don’t think I will. I heard the customer service is terrible, and there’s never any free rooms.” All he got in response was a weak growl. “Sweet dreams, Sherl,” he whispered as the detective’s eyes slid shut. Halfway across town, in a car breaking the speed limit at a good ninety mph while weaving through traffic, Mycroft dropped his phone, currently on speaker, horrified. John felt his heart stop, anger and panic warring for control underneath the surface.

Moriarty was back. More importantly…

 ** _Sherlock was alive_**.

 

Closing A/N: Cliffhanger I did not expect to write so soon, OOCness galore, and more angst than probably necessary. So… Moriarty’s back, and John is finally realizing that Sherlock is, in fact, alive. Let the character introductions and drama begin next chapter. :)     

 


	4. Chapter Three: More Mysteries

Chapter Three: More Mysteries

 

A/N: After being struck with inspiration (and realizing the hallucination thing has only been for two-ish chapters), I’ve rewritten part of this to prolong John’s suffering… That sounds a bit dark *cue evil laugh here*… Uh… Anyway, Mary, Sherlock, and Moriarty all have lovely conversations together, Mycroft **is** in fact the British government, and John is even more of a confused mess. Enjoy!

 

     John was out of the car and sprinting into 221B as soon as they were on Baker Street. He found each door unlocked, including the one into their flat, as he thundered up the stairs. In the sitting room, he saw a light emanating from under his chair: Sherlock’s phone. Impossible. He squatted down and retrieved it to find it was still connected to the call with Mycroft, who walked slowly into the flat behind him in silent shock. John clutched the phone tightly to his chest, trying to keep his anger in check while also trying not to have a panic attack. Moriarty was out there, _with Sherlock, **his** Sherlock_. And Sherlock… Sherlock was alive. But… That wasn’t possible. Surely there had to be something else going on here.

     “John,” Mycroft spoke softly, standing slightly behind him. “Breathe.” He hadn’t even noticed he was starting to hyperventilate, quickly slowly down his breathing back to normal.

     “He… I…” The ex-army doctor was lost for words. Finally, after a moment of deliberation, he bit out, “I need some air.” He quickly stood, marching off towards the stairs.

     “John,” Mycroft called out. He received no response apart from the sound of retreating footfalls on the staircase. “John!” he tried again. No luck. Sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft’s eyes swept over the kitchen and sitting room, looking for anything out of place.

     His gaze was drawn to a small, sharp object lying adjacent to an overturned kitchen chair. He went over to it, examining it in his hands. He then gathered that whatever substance it held had to have caused the struggle from the kitchen to the sitting room that his brother went through. It had to have been a tranquilizer, albeit different from your average one if Sherlock managed to get from the middle of the city back to 221B before truly feeling its effects. He would have Ms. Hooper test it later at Bart’s. His mind supplied him with several scenarios, though none seemed to fit with the evidence displayed: dirty dishes and empty takeout boxes, the overturned chair, the slightly disturbed contents atop the other table, the barely moved sofa. He pieced together a rather cliché scene, not unlike an attempted emotional or anxious scene in a film. “How peculiar…” he mumbled to himself, “And positively dull.” Mycroft turned his attention back to the evidence in his hand. He held up the dart thoughtfully, showcasing it in the light, letting deductions run through his mind freely and turning towards each piece of evidence as he does so.

      _From the way Sherlock looked at the crime scene, he hadn’t eaten for what seems to be a week, judging by the state of their food supply, but in reality, is really only four or five days. He must have been hit with this the dart on the way here, and must have felt some sort of effect that he associated with lack of food, most likely blurry vision or temporary loss of equilibrium. He devours everything he can get his hands on in the hopes that he would stay conscious long enough to find another piece of the puzzle regarding the case, slower thinking be damned. It was at this point the tranquilizer/sedative really took effect, and around the time I sent him a text asking what he was hiding from me. That much was evident by the expression on his face after I read the note aloud at the crime scene. Something was eating at him, something he wanted kept to himself, despite knowing it could potentially be a vital piece of evidence. He hears the text alert, topples out of the chair, and crawls towards his phone, hoping to send a help message. He braces himself on the arm of the sofa, moving it slightly as he pushes himself up enough to, with effort, reach his phone and dial my number in response to the text. He throws his phone under John’s chair, knowing someone was coming up the steps and wanting us to know exactly who was after him, possibly hoping it to be the killer. There was no sign of forced entry, and Sherlock isn’t prone to locking his doors regardless, normally a foolish mistake that this time brought to light what he’d suspected all along. We now know that James Moriarty is indeed alive, is aware of the murders of his network, and has taken my Sherlock hostage. Where specifically is unknown, but with the amount of time that’s passed between the silence of the call and our arrival, approximately thirteen minutes, he can’t have gotten far, certainly not outside the city. Motive unknown, but most likely dangerous, and_ \-- He paused as he turned towards the other half of the sitting room, catching sight of the wall, his blood running cold. Where a yellow smiley face would be, the words _MISS ME?_ were spray painted in crimson. It was then he decided he’d seen enough. He texted Anthea, careful to keep connected to the call to Sherlock’s phone. His orders were simple.

      _Call in everyone_

XxX        

     Sherlock startled awake to find himself sitting in the backseat of a car, unharmed, not bound, merely strapped in with a seatbelt. Beside him sat a smug looking Moriarty, who seemed to perk up at his regaining consciousness. “Wakey wakey, Sherlock,” he sang, smiling deviously. “Enjoy your little nap? From the sight of you earlier, it seemed like you needed one, so I had my lovely partner in crime help you out a little.”

     “How?” was the first thing to leave Sherlock’s lips in response. “How did you do it? How are you still alive?”

     “Oh, can you not figure it out? You have almost all the evidence you need.”

     “I watched you put a gun in your mouth and blow your brains out not a foot away from me. I watched them take your lifeless body from the roof--”

     “And there’s a clue right there,” Moriarty interjected. “I certainly **looked** lifeless, didn’t I? I fooled you; I fooled everyone.”

     “One of the men helping was one of your network,” Sherlock stated after a moment’s hesitation.

     “Very good. And?”

     “You found a way to either temporarily stop your pulse or slow it down enough to be undetectable. I’d wager the latter.”

     “Also correct.”

     “Then the burial plot across London--”

     “Is empty. It’s always been empty. And I bet you’re dying to know _all_ the details. Unfortunately, those come with a price. Information for information.”

     “What kind of information?” Sherlock questioned, eyes narrowed. Moriarty merely smiled.

     “Who was the last one before you got back?” He knew the detective would know exactly what he was talking about.

     “Serbia,” Sherlock answered simply. The criminal frowned briefly before looking impassive. He’d still owed him a favor, that one. No matter.

     “It took a bit of string pulling, but I managed to get a serum that slows your heart rate down to one beat per minute if taken. Can’t be bothered with the name of it. Nasty bit of dabbling, lots of dangerous, fatal experimentation, but they got me a safe sample. It was just the matter of getting someone to shoot me with it at exactly the right time, which they did. Then it was fake blood, a bit of makeup, a little of this, a little of that. That's the short version, anyway. How long have you been back?”

     “Thirty-two days. Where did you disappear to once you were pronounced dead?” He spoke quickly as his mind processed everything said to him.

     “I’ve got various vacation spots in surrounding cities and all around the world. I spent a little while in Sussex, then I hopped on a plane to Ireland for a bit. I visited America, California in particular, and came back here when **they** started.”

     “The murders. Then you don’t know who’s behind them, what they want from you?”

     “Nope,” Moriarty responded, putting extra emphasis on the p. “Which is why I think we can help each other out. I have a case that’s in need of solving and more information to give.”

     “You--” Sherlock held in a laugh, a disbelieving smile on his face. “You want me to solve the case for you? No. No, that’s not happening.”

     “Oh, come **on** , Sherlock. We both know if you were back in town you’d be running around, spouting deductions and rhetorical questions at every turn. I’m merely pointing out that we can help each other. You get to solve a baffling case and I get to figure out and find the person shrinking my network. It’s a win-win situation.” He was almost whining at this point in frustration. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow, expression now calculating, as the car rolled to a stop. Moriarty got out, walking towards a dirt path leading into a thicket of trees, and Sherlock followed, closing the door behind him.

     “And what other information do you have to give?” They were standing in the beginnings of a heavily wooded area, located between the city across the river and a small cluster of cabins. Outside the city then, though not too far.

     “Nothing overly exciting. Just,” he shrugged, “You know, some idiot trying to blow up the government.” He laughed briefly. “And his contact, or at least a party interested in the demise of others… But you should know by now though, that I don’t take no for an answer.” The consulting detective gave him a quizzical look before noticing the red dot on his chest. He scoffed up in exasperation. “I know! Been there, done that. However…” It was then that their driver, clad in all black from head to toe, strolled over to Moriarty’s side. She looked like she’d seen a lifetime of horrors, or at least one of action. He could see it in her eyes, virtually the only part of her body visible besides the ends of her blonde curls, her practiced relaxed body language. _Cat lover, secret tattoo, appendix scar, bakes own bread, size 12, Liberal Democrat, only-child, guardian, disillusioned, part time nurse, clever, LIAR_ , his mind supplied from a quick once over. That’s a rather odd combination, one he’d enjoy piecing together later. At the moment, however…

     “You never did tell me what was so special about this one, Jim. I don’t even have a name,” she spoke. Her accent was British, but Sherlock could tell she had traveled around from slight inflections on certain vowels, hardly noticeable unless you knew what to listen for. It was also clear that Moriarty decidedly didn’t trust her as much as he’d let on. They were partners of a sort, but the agreement had to have been mutual, not one of old friends or previous companions. Interesting. Perhaps she could be of some use to him then.

     “Names are irrelevant in this situation, though I assume there’s something I can address you as?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his newfound intrigue out of his voice. The blonde crossed her arms, an irked expression crossing her face.

     “Agent R,” Moriarty spoke, “Would assist you, of course. She lives in the city, knows it well, has her connections.” He turns to her. “This one also has connections, and a rather unique skill set that makes him every criminal’s feared enemy. He’s a terror who works on the side of the angels.” He looks Sherlock gleefully in the eye at his next statement. “There’s a great deal many things special about him.”

     “I never agreed to--” He grunted as his feet were swept out from under him, feeling himself falling. He found himself on the ground, face meeting earth, boot putting pressure on his spine and the cold barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head. “How dull,” he murmured against the dirt path.

     “We both know how this works. You don’t need to agree. As long as John Watson and the rest of your merry band of friends…” Sherlock tuned him out temporarily. John. Dear God. What must he be going through right now? Mycroft had been on his way to Baker Street, had called. Surely John would’ve been with him, heard the whole phone conversation. He would know he was alive now, would know that his supposed dreams had been a reality, that-- The kiss. The kiss they’d shared and the many that would follow. Though disgust hadn’t been an initial reaction, what must John think now that he knows he wasn’t kissing a figment of his imagination in his head? How could Sherlock return and only make everything worse from the moment he set foot in Baker Street? He was pulled from his thoughts as the gun on his head shook. Not nerves. No, she was clearly unperturbed by the current sequence of events. Something that had been said then.

     “John Watson?” she inquired. “Anyone I should be concerned about?” Ah. She knew him. Sherlock didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed by this fact.

     “He’s no threat, if that’s what you’re asking. No, just someone our friend here cares **very** deeply about.” He then addressed Sherlock. “I’ve got informants tailing him as we speak. If you want to be uncooperative, then by all means do so, but John might be in an accident--"

     “Fine,” Sherlock hissed, raising his head off the ground and shoving the agent off of him. He clambered to his feet. “I assume you have a plan then?”

     “Of course.”

     “And?” the blonde asked. Before Moriarty could answer, his head snapped towards the city as a multitude of sirens sounded. From there, he heard the whirring of helicopters, several hovering towards the city. A conspicuous boat whizzed past on the river and his phone buzzed in his pocket. _I WILL FIND YOU_ was printed on the screen. He scowled. Sherlock took in the look on Moriarty’s face. Mycroft. How he loved his brother sometimes (though he’d never admit that out loud). Sherlock smirked.

     “We’d better not waste any more time then.”  

XxX

     John needed some air. His feet carried him swiftly through town; he didn’t bother noticing where he was going. He needed time to think and time to get his thoughts together. Nothing… Nothing made sense anymore. For one moment, he hoped, dared to dream, that Sherlock was alive. Solid proof seemed to be staring him in the face. However, there was that doubt in the back of his mind that refused to be unheard. _Sherlock is gone. He’s dead, and he’s going to stay dead. YOU. ARE. HALLUCINATING._ But what if he wasn’t? That thought fought fiercely against his doubt. Mycroft was just as shaken as he was during the call. What if, by some miracle, Sherlock **was** alive? The questions would be endless. His first would be how long? How long had he been back? Then, did Mycroft know? Did he know that his brother had lived? Had he helped him go into hiding? Where had Sherlock been these last two years? The more questions he asked himself, the more muddled his thoughts became, and he stopped and leaned against a brick wall in an alleyway. He looked at the phone still clutched in his hand. 

     The call to Mycroft’s phone was still connected, and he decided he would leave it that way. If Moriarty was back, then some of his men were surely lurking around the city. Say Sherlock was alive. If he’d gotten to Sherlock, perhaps he was next. The thought made both his blood boil and chills run up his spine, for as much as he liked the thrill of danger, he’d gladly skip over Moriarty’s breed of danger any day. He tugged at his hair in frustration with his free hand. The more his thoughts warred with each other, the more insane he felt, so he was thankful when there was rustling on the other end of the line, the sound of a car door closing.

     “John, are you there?” Mycroft asked, the slightest hint of worry present in his voice. John had to clear his throat a few times before speaking.

     “Y-Yeah. I’m here. Find anything?” His voice was as steady as he could make it.

     “I found traces of a tranquilizer I’d like to have Ms. Hooper examine at Bart’s when the time presents itself. Moriarty can’t have gotten far, hardly outside the city, and I have every task force and available unit scouring the city and its outskirts as we speak.”

     “What do you mean every--” John stopped himself as he felt the wind suddenly pick up and his ears start to ring. Stepping out of the alleyway, a look of confusion on his face, phone still held up to his ear, he stumbled back from the edge of the sidewalk as squad cars and sirens blared past. “What in--” His head snapped up as a helicopter flew overhead, searchlight scanning over the ground as it passed. His eyebrows shot up. “Mycroft, what the Hell is going on?!”

     Unfazed by the shouting, he answered, “Must you always ask the most obvious questions? Look around you, John.”

     “Is this really necessary?”

     “London’s most dangerous criminal mastermind is active once again, location unknown, right under our noses, and I **will not** let him get away. I **_will_** find him… and I will ensure that he pays for every life he took in his schemes,” he growled. “Now, where are you currently?”

     Scoffing, John looked at his surroundings to find himself in front of Bart’s Hospital. Strange. “I’m at Bart’s actually. Should I wait for you to get here? We can ask Molly about what you found.”

     “No,” Mycroft barked over the line. “If Moriarty is as cautious as he was before, he’ll have someone following you. I would rather **not** have to rescue two of you should something go amiss. Do you have your gun with you?”

     “‘Course I have my bloody gun on me. Why?” John snapped.

     “You may need it. I wanted to ensure you had a way of defending yourself should a situation arise.”

     “I’ll be fine. Just get down here already. The sooner we figure out what that tranquilizer is, the sooner--” _We can go home_. John didn’t want to go back home though, not tonight. Knowing Moriarty had broken into 221B without arousing suspicion from anyone made him feel like a soldier in No Man’s Land. There was a very likely chance you would end up dead, and the odds were definitely not in your favor.

     “If it puts your mind at ease,” Mycroft started, interrupting John’s thoughts, “Greg and I have a guest bedroom you’re welcome to use.” He could tell that John was bothered by Moriarty barging into his flat as if it were an everyday occurrence.

     In an attempt to lighten the mood, and distract himself further, John questioned, in a mock serious tone, “Are you sure I won’t be kept up by the sounds of the two of you shagging?” He held in a chuckle as Mycroft sputtered several times in an attempt to defend himself.

     “You have the audacity to--”

     “Relax, Mycroft. I’m only teasing. Just… get here. Please.”  

XxX

     Hours later, Sherlock observed “Agent R,” as she’d been addressed as earlier, sitting across from him at a small table in a cabin of sorts a few minutes’ walk inside the woods from the car. She had set a plate down in front of him with what looked like freshly made food, but Sherlock was in no hurry to touch it, much less eat it. She glared as he sat there, his eyes flicking over her in an attempt to glean more about her true identity. _She **was** an agent of a specialized group, working for the highest bidder it would seem. That lifestyle got left behind when something went horribly awry, leaving her the sole survivor of her last assignment. Since then, she’s been in London, and apparently working for Moriarty._

     “I didn’t help him drag you all the way out here just for you to starve yourself. Eat.” Sherlock ignored her words, instead asking a question that had plagued him since their meeting outside.

     “How do you know John?” Her eyes widened a fraction, not noticeable unless you were looking for it.

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

     “Oh, but you do. Outside when you had the gun to my head, your hand shook when Moriarty mentioned John. You asked about him, trying to make it seem as if you were curious about who he was when in reality you were concerned for his well-being. While you may have fooled him, you certainly haven’t fooled me.” She gaped behind the mask obscuring the lower half of her face. “Oh, don’t bother asking how. I simply observed. Now, _how do you know John Watson?_ ” He stressed the question, refusing to let her harm him in any way. She looked into his eyes, finding a fierce protectiveness and something much deeper than love for the man who’d been threatened. Whoever this mysterious, observant man was he cared for John, and would no doubt burn the world down to protect him. She sighed resignedly, gaze drifting somewhere off to the side.

     “I’m an ex, one of many, I’ve been told. We started dating about a year after his flatmate died. John was so enchanting, so caring and loyal. I couldn’t help but fall for him, hard, and him for me. We were together for a majority of this year, talked about moving in together. We would have dinner, take walks through parks and around the city before nightfall, stay up together watching crap telly at all hours of the early morning… It didn’t last though. Some days were good, and others consisted of him mourning his flatmate. He never even told me his name, said he just couldn’t say it after all this time. He’d start being distant, wouldn’t smile as much, go without talking to me for days. There came a point when I asked him about it, and we both agreed it’d be best if we split up. We stayed friends though, still went out together, but… One day… He stopped returning my calls, stopped texting me. No one had seen him outside of work, said he’d gone and “holed himself up again.” I haven’t heard from him in two months.” She raised her gaze and stared coldly at him. “Then I saw him at a crime scene earlier, examining a dead body, looking like it was the most normal thing in the world. Care to explain that to me?”

     “John is a very dear friend of mine. In my line of work, I consulted for New Scotland Yard and he was by my side, providing his medical expertise while I examined any victims and crime scenes.” He said this as if it were obvious.

     “That still doesn’t explain the months of--”

     “If I were to wager, I’d assume it’d be around a month before the time of his return that our dear Dr. Watson stopped going out in public, and the month he did that he stopped communicating with you?” Moriarty stood in the doorway, looking to Sherlock for confirmation and receiving a nod.

     “John has his ups and downs. You said it yourself. You said others have told you he’s gone and “holed himself up again.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, remarking with sarcasm, “So _eloquently_ put.” She glared, and he continued. “That statement implies he’s isolated himself from others several times before, for long periods at a time. I believe the stress of your separation, no matter how civilized, and the loss of the distraction from his grief combined is what caused him to shut everyone out that month.”

     “Distraction?!” She had the audacity to look insulted and Sherlock had had just about enough of her. “He still mourned even when we were together--”

     “And I guarantee you that he was much better about it with you than he was on his own. I’ve seen his grief!” Sherlock rounded on her, determination to get his point across in his eyes. “Do you have **any** idea what it’s like to see one of the only people who’s ever cared about you collapse to their knees in despair, unable to stop himself from letting their pain be heard for miles around?! Do you know how it feels to hear someone pour their heart out to you, voice full of regret and heartbreak, unable to tell if you’re real or not?! Do you know how it feels to hear them beg you not to be dead at your grave, by an empty cemetery plot, unable to reach out and comfort them and fulfill that request?! Do not patronize me because John has stopped keeping in touch with you! If you were truly his friend you would understand the pain he is going through like you claimed to in the past year!” He was breathing heavily after his outburst, the blonde looking taken aback and unnerved while Moriarty looked like he was torn between laughing or sympathizing. With a calmer tone, he commented, “I don’t see how you and John were together for a long period of time, much less a **year** , if you were this concerned about holding his attention.” There was a tense silence between them for a long moment.

     “Well!” Moriarty began, clapping his hand together, “You two obviously have a lot to talk about, so how about you two take some time tomorrow in the city. You can start solving that case **and** set your issues aside. You can make yourselves comfortable because I have intel collecting to do, and it seems it will be _very_ interesting indeed. However…” He left them in suspense for a moment. “I only have one extra bed for guests, and since our lovely agent here is using it…” He threw Sherlock a suggestive, but teasing, look, smirking. Sherlock’s eyes widened, though he knew Moriarty wasn’t being serious.

     “I will sleep on the floor,” he declared, hoping he was imagining the flush he felt on his face. The criminal rolled his eyes as if to say, “You’re no fun.” His smirk softened to a smile.

     “There’s a perfectly good sofa in the other room. Blankets are under the cushions.” With that, he retreated to his room, closing his door softly, but not before telling him, “Oh, and you really shouldn’t bottle things up like that. It’s not healthy.” Sherlock’s eyes turned back to the blonde, who was regarding him thoughtfully.  

     “We’ll be leaving at noon tomorrow,” she told him quietly. “I grabbed some of your things earlier before we brought you here, fresh clothes and such. They’ll be on the couch.” With that, she took her leave as well, leaving Sherlock alone with a cold plate of food. Sighing at his loss of temper from earlier, he made his way into the next open room, complete with couch, fireplace, table, and armchair. His clothes and other items were placed just as she said they would be, neatly folded in a pile on one side of the couch. He moved them onto the table before lying down and trying to make himself halfway comfortable, though how he could do so knowing he was sharing a dwelling with the criminal mind who’d made his life a living Hell and an (ex?) assassin was beyond him. He didn’t even notice when he drifted off, his last thoughts being of Mycroft and John, scouring the city for him, coming face to face with Moriarty and “Agent R.” When he awoke the next morning, he couldn’t remember who won the stand-off.

 

Closing A/N: A snow day well spent (Well, can you call it that? It’s well below zero at the moment, and they cancelled school, but there’s no snow… *shrugs*). I didn’t like the rapid tone change near the end, but it kept fighting me, so I left it in. More messages from our mystery murderer next chapter, and Sherlock gets to know Mary a little better during their time back in the city.           


End file.
